


With the Edges Worn Down

by MayatheBee



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Anal Sex, Dirty Talk, F/M, First Time Bottoming, First Time Topping, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, Polyamory Negotiations, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-16
Updated: 2018-01-20
Packaged: 2019-02-15 16:46:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,979
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13035315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MayatheBee/pseuds/MayatheBee
Summary: At first he felt it acutely, when Ron and Hermione pulled up a fourth corner in the triangle of their relationship.  But life goes on, and life had mostly been good.  The edges had worn down.  Life rolled





	1. 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first foray into fic in almost a decade. After a while, you get sick of combing the web for the perfect story and decide to write the one you want to read. Maybe it will check some boxes for someone else too...

It took a long time, an embarrassingly long time, before Harry understood that it wasn’t normal. Skyrocketing from pointed insignificance to infamy while navigating an entire new universe would leave anyone clawing for a toehold of comfort. And if he had thought about it in those early years, which adolescents rarely do, he would have called them his one normal thing.

When he first started to consider that intangible ache, on a lonely moor in the freezing cold while they slept inside the stuffy tent, he rationalized it. When people conquer so many perilous things together, it creates a new way of relating. It was no different than a group of soldiers might feel, having been to battle together time and time again. It made sense then, the way that he felt them. The way he felt them at that moment, and knew for certain they were both sound asleep. The way he let out a breath he didn’t know he had been holding when Hermione entered a room, the way he checked Ron’s face first, whenever anything of significance happened. It was to be expected. They were his safe place.

The real moment when everything shifted came with such clarity. And it hurt. The morning sun was shining too brightly through the kitchen windows at The Burrow. Having slept poorly again, he was rummaging through the cupboards for some tea when he felt them in the door way and it startled him. It was only when he turned around that he understood why he had been surprised. Still bleary from sleep, Ron leaned against the door frame. Hermione tucked her body gently against him. Harry’s eyes had fallen immediately upon Ron’s hand, resting on Hermione’s hip bone, holding her in place. Twenty years later, if he closed his eyes, he could still see them, exactly as they had been.   The idea that he would never touch Hermione that way, that Ron would never hold him so casually had slashed into his awareness fully formed. It made it hard to breathe. He had shut the cupboards abruptly and retreated to his bed, muttering excuses, where he stayed for most of the morning. They hadn’t followed him.

He had stared up at the ceiling, angry, blindingly angry at them, at the way they had pulled up another corner in the sacred triangle of their relationship. They hadn’t asked him. They hadn’t even told him. They had wanted and they had done and they hadn’t considered him. He hadn’t any right to expect them to. He wasn’t allowed to expect them to. He rested in that anger. Anger was a good, clean, easy feeling and it kept the other questions away. Those, Harry jammed way back into the box in his mind designated for things too big to want when one had already used up too much luck saving the world and staying alive.

Life went on, and life had been good. There had been Ginny, with her lopsided smile, wickedly subversive humor and her casually efficient way of managing the life they built. He had wanted her, he had loved her and he felt her absence now like a missing limb. Her illness had been brief, and still almost two years later, he found himself incredulous at the reality of a world that did not include the mother of his children.

They had rarely talked about it, but it had always caused Ginny to set her jaw stonily, the way that Harry, Ron and Hermione had pulled into each other whenever life brought stress. He had tried so deliberately to move her to the center of his universe, most acutely in those last long nights that brought no sleep and so much pain. He wondered if she had noticed, ill as she was, but the guilt and the weight of that effort did not stop him from flying to them the moment she was gone.

It had been fate, he told himself, when the cottage next door to Ron and Hermione’s larger one, had come up for sale. It simplified things immensely, not to have Hermione apparating halfway across town to stock his pantry and chide him about his socks on the living room floor.   It was easier to make only one stop when bringing the children home from Kings Cross. He only needed to stroll across the walk to check on Ron’s firewhiskey supply in advance of a big weekend match. Ron packed three lunches. Harry cancelled his subscription to the Prophet and the Quibbler and paid the owl at the Weasleys’ window. Hermione charmed his schedule into the family appointment book. When home for the Holidays, children piled into bedrooms like puppies, their feet trampling new paths between the back gardens. Harry still felt the squareness of the relationship sometimes, still felt like an intruder as they settled in for a night and Ron drew Hermione to his side, as Hermione licked her finger to straighten the wayward part in the back of Ron’s hair, but it didn’t hurt so much as it used to. The edges had long since worn down. Life rolled.


	2. 2

Hermione labeled things. No, that wasn’t quite accurate. She had always been interested in the most precise technical term. You couldn’t cross reference, sort, research, anything if you didn’t know exactly what it was. She could not think of a time when it didn’t serve her to know.

She had always known Harry was a part of it. In the early days of her and Ron there had been whispered conversations.   They watched him trying to respect the privacy they now sometimes wanted. They watched his eyes harden as he offered to stay away for a few hours. They watched him look away as they entered a room together, tardy, biting back smiles. But what was to be done?

In the beginning, she remembered a vague sense that there could be something more, even in the buzzing, heady feeling of Ron’s hands sliding over her skin for the first time. But there is nothing like the conclusion of a war to send one barreling toward adulthood, and there is nothing like reaching for adulthood to cure the want for impossible things.

That begging to be named thing used to hurt her sometimes.   There was often a pang in her chest when sat quietly in a room together, reading, listening to the wireless, squeezed three across onto the small sofa in Ron and Hermione’s first flat, Harry on the end, never quite touching. She had wondered then, would it be enough, to call it by its name inside her mind? Most of the time, it was. She had found she could keep the part of her that knew exactly what this was relatively quiet. She’d run right up against the thought and tap it like a bruise. It was always there, and sometimes the surprise of its surfacing stung. She named it quietly when the boys come in sweaty and grinning from weekend pickup quiddich, their hands on each other as they jostled for the first shower, when Harry turned up in their kitchen again after a long, awful day working a case, when she rocked Harry’s babies to sleep like they were her own.

And then Ginny had died. In those awful first months, Harry had lived only for his children. When Lily had gone to Hogwarts, he had ghosted between work and his home. Ron and Hermione had tracked his bills, cooked his meals and charmed the house clean. She recalled one occasion where Ron had physically tossed Harry into the shower. He had slowly come back to them, turning up with dessert when they invited him for dinner, re-emerging at the weekend pickup quiddich games that he and Ron used to attend religiously.

It had been good for him to move next door. Everyday life had effortless expanded to include him. His smile lines returned. But the unnamed thing became unrelenting. Harry in the back garden, picking herbs to garnish dinner, Harry and Ron huddled close, mending the rickety back porch, Harry, laughing down at her as she balked at a particularly stupid owl post from work. Hermione felt it floating thickly in the room almost daily. She was choking on it. Her mind raced constantly, analyzing each facial expression, each movement. Did they feel it too? She thought so, she was almost sure. They had to. But what if they didn’t? After too many sweaty sleepless nights, there was no more avoiding it. She was going to have to say it out loud. But how?

When one carries a thought silently for decades, the idea of vocalizing it is terrifying. That it came flying out one night without her planning it may have been the biggest surprise of her life. There was of course, the wine, but there had been plenty of wine over the years. They often split a bottle of wine on Friday night, sometimes two if the week called for it. The children were away at Hogwarts, what difference did a few glasses make? Harry was raucously recounting a case that had taken him to a seedy part of town in search of even seedier people and she and Ron were laughing so hard at his impression of an old barmaid’s very graphic proposition that tears were streaming down her face. Ron reached out and ruffled Harry’s, hair and for a fraction of a moment, Harry leaned in to Ron’s hand, his eyes almost slipping closed. She stopped laughing. She stopped breathing. Startled, two heads swung in her direction.

“Are we ever going to talk about it?” Her voice, when she found it, was even. There was a buzzing in her ears. When she thought back, all she could remember was Ron’s slack jaw, and Harry’s wide eyes. “I don’t know how much longer we can go on, if we don’t at least talk about it.”

Ron swallowed, well versed in coaxing Hermione back to the beginning of her thought. “Help us out here Hermione.”

Harry was slowly shaking his head. She could see him mentally searching for any other thing, any other it, which might be easier.

“The way we feel about each other.” She looked at Harry directly. “The Harry thing.” She looked into Ron’s eyes. That no one stopped her was the best encouragement she could have hoped for, so she breathed and plunged on. “I think we’ve all been in love with each other for a really long time. But we haven’t been able to talk about it because we didn’t think it was possible and we didn’t want to hurt people, or change our friendship. It’s a real thing, polyamorary, relationships between more than two people.” Her heart fell a little as she saw Harry’s neutral auror mask slip over his face. “It’s probably the easiest for me to think about. Loving two men doesn’t challenge the way I think about my sexuality, though admitting that I have feelings for my best friend could complicate things with my husband.” She smiled wryly. Ron swallowed, but returned her gaze evenly. “For you two, it’s much harder because it’s that and you have to decide what it means that you have feelings for another man. And for you Harry, there’s the guilt of wanting anyone after Ginny died.” Her mouth was so dry. She thought her hands might be shaking. She couldn’t feel them. “And I think we’ve all known it was this way, maybe forever, but I think maybe now is the first time we ever could have done something real about it.” The silence pulsed. Harry stared at the floor. Ron pulled at a thread in his shirt sleeve. He was now looking at Harry, not at her.

“You’re not wrong.” His voice was coarse, his words parsed out slowly. Harry’s head snapped around to meet Ron’s eye. Hermione resisted the urge to fill the pulsing silence.

“What do we do?” Harry whispered to the wall. His body was so still.

“Maybe nothing tonight. Maybe we just agree that this is something we’re going to think about. Ron and I aren’t giving up as much by being with you too, Harry, but you might be. Let’s keep talking about it.”

Ron chuckled and it surprised her. “That’s our girl, ‘let’s keep talking about it’. Mate, I swear, we should get that on a pillow or something. It’s Hermione’s solution to everything. The longer she talks, the more I know she is absolutely going to get her way.”

Harry laughed.   “You don’t have to tell me, I know.”

“I know you know, mate.” Ron’s voice dropped to that rumbling octave, the one that shot straight to her center. He was leaning toward Harry ever so slightly. “Maybe we let it happen naturally.” Harry shivered. She could relate. When Ron turned that voice on her, she was always in the best kind of trouble.

“But I just want to clarify,” Hermione’s brain had switched back into gear. There were parameters, there were logistics, there was so much to talk about!

“I know you do, love. You’re talking about me and you, you and him, him and me, and all of us, yeah? No secrets. Does that cover it?” It usually bothered her, when Ron cut her monologue off at the knees with his earnest, succinct way. Now she was flooded with gratitude, relief, and an intense wave of love for him. She nodded.

“Okay.” Harry exhaled. “Okay.” Harry laughed. “Okay.” Harry stood up. He hovered awkwardly alone in the middle of the living room for a fraction a second before Hermione barreled into his arms and Ron enveloped him from behind. And they stood there for uncountable minutes, just wanting, just breathing, just imagining. Hermione had hugged Harry plenty of times, but never like this. Never pulled tight against his almost too thin frame, tucked under his chin, counting his breathes and smelling his soap. Certainly never with Ron’s heavy hands running up and down her back and Harry’s arms and his familiar breath falling over them. She wasn’t sure, but she thought maybe her heart wasn’t the only one racing wildly out of her chest. Harry was so still, with his eyes closed and his head resting back against Ron’s chest. Every few moments, his arms briefly tightened, pulling her closer, testing reality. She could have stood there forever, reveling in the familiar and the shockingly new. Hermione wondered if they would explode. She considered the possibility that Ron’s hands might dip a little lower, that Harry might tilt her chin up. And she knew for a fact that it would have been a rash decision, just as she knew for a fact that she would follow them happily if they went plummeting over the edge. Harry slipped out of the middle first, with a very small smile. He seemed almost shy as he put on his shoes, which was a silly thing to do when one was apparating next door, she thought absently, but habits can be like that. Ron and Hermione watched him, mutely. “I love you guys. I’ll see you tomorrow.” And with a pop, he was gone.

Ron was over her immediately, kissing her hard, and backing her into the dining room.   She bumped gently against the table. One long arm grabbed her rear and hoisted her onto the table with only a small grunt. Never breaking the kiss, he stepped into her, her legs wrapping around him as she searched for friction and stability. His hand worked at her jeans, unfastening her favorite pair with practiced ease. He didn’t yank at her clothes, or order her out of them, as was typically his style, but worked his hand inside. She gasped for air, and then he started to talk. Ron would occasionally whisper filthy things during especially enthusiastic sex. It was one trick in the deep bag one inevitably develops if one wishes to have varied and interesting sex with the same person for decades. And they did. Though they suffered from typical marital highs and lows, they managed to continue to have objectively good sex. The look in his eyes now, though, this was something verging on brand new. He worked her nub relentlessly as his hot breath fell into her ears and she tried stay tethered to reality. Why was she trying? “You want him to put his hands here and feel how wet you are for him. You want to feel his fingers in you, stroking, reaching. You want to come all over his hand and watch him taste it.” She shuddered and bucked, moaning into his mouth frantically, desperately burning.

“You want him to fuck you like this don’t you? Hard and fast and just because he wants to. You want me to watch. You want to watch me touch him, see his mouth around my cock after he fucks you. You want to watch his face as we make him come.   You want him to bury his face in your cunt. You want him to look at you while he does it.” She came hard and unexpectedly, messy on his hand. She couldn’t recall the last time she had come using just his hand. They had been so much younger. She heard him unfasten his jeans, and lifted herself off the table so he could divest her of hers. He slammed into her, his calloused fingers squeezing her hip and pulling her down on him, one hand roaming her body, tugging her hair, rolling her nipple, grazing her throat. He thrust slow and hard, and he never stopped talking. “You want to suck my cock while he fucks you. You want me to fuck him into you. You want to watch his sweat drip onto me while he fucks me from behind. You want to lick it.” The minutes contracted and expanded in her belly. It was too much; it wasn’t enough.   She was hovering right on the edge, again. It was always harder to tip over the second time. She was crawling out her skin, it almost hurt, spurred on by his words, distracted by them, enthralled. “You want to watch me kiss him while we’re both inside you.” She nipped at his throat. Whimpering, biting down on the chord of his neck, she came.

“You want that too.” She ground out, and he followed her, collapsing into her, moaning into her mouth, finally quiet.

That night, they slept more deeply than either could remember.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is unbetaed, so the mistakes and repetitive phrasing are my fault. It's bothering me in the first two chapters and so I expect there's some of that here as well. Apologies, friends.

In the morning, Ron opened his eyes and engaged his brain slowly.    Hermione had gotten out of bed some time ago, and he could hear her downstairs, trying to tidy up the kitchen quietly.  As usual, he slowly took inventory of the day.  It was Saturday.  He didn’t have to work.  The pickup quiddich game was at ten.  Harry would be there.  He hoped Harry would be there. They hadn’t missed a week in months.  They had decided last night to begin a relationship with Harry.   The thought sent a jolt of electricity through him and sent his brain spinning.  It wasn’t that Ron was incapable of thinking deeply about things.  It wasn’t even that he didn’t like to.  He was married to Hermione, for Merlin’s sake.  It was just that it sometimes didn’t occur to him.  He hadn’t thought much about the thing with Harry, not since years ago when he and Hermione were just starting out.  The bottom line then was that was what it was and it wasn’t going to happen.  That had changed all at once.  It was going to happen now.  Deciding to do something was one thing, but deciding how to do it was another thing.  It was going to be entirely different, but so much would be unchanged.  It was going to be very weird, that was unavoidable, but it was going to happen.  With a little buzz, with his arms full of his two favorite  people in the world, he hadn’t been terribly concerned about the details.  But the sun was up, his head was pounding, his morning erection was hardening further and  his heart was thrumming in his ears. He was going to have to have some caffeine and he was going to need speak with Hermione. 

She was sitting at the kitchen table, mug in front of her, scowling at the Profit, her hair pulled into a messy knot.  “Good morning, beautiful.”  Her face brightened.  She turned the page and leaned into his embrace. 

“There’s eggs.”  She gestured toward to range helpfully. Her face was scrubbed clean and she was wearing a roomy grey shirt that might have been new.

“I fucking love you.”  She smiled up at him.  He chuckled and filled his plate, settling at the table next to her. 

She waited until his mouth was full.  He swore she did that on purpose. “I’m headed out.  Are you coming back to the house after the match?”  They usually did, showering up and relaxing.  Hermione usually ran errands on Saturday morning; and they had long enjoyed the quiet, uncomplicated time together.  They made lunch, got takeout, played chess, caught a match on the wireless, watched a movie on the muggle TV or puttered in the garden.  Saturdays were easy. It figured that Hermione would expect the usual routine to stand, even in the face of whatever was happening, was about to happen.

“I expect we will.  Going to be bloody weird though.”

Hermione looked at him evenly.  “Yes, probably.  But it feels kind of delicious doesn’t it?  She smiled her small, secret smile.

He considered this and nodded, shrugging.  He had wanted to talk about it.  He had come down here to talk about it.  But what was there to say?

“It’s okay if nothing happens, you know.  There’s no schedule.” The disappointment he felt at the idea that it might not happen today surprised him.  “It’s also okay if you fuck him in the shower.”  He choked on his eggs. 

He stopped coughing long enough to sputter, “You wouldn’t want us to wait for you?” 

She swallowed her evil grin, but her eyes still sparkled.  “I thought a bit about it.  It might be good for us to work things out as pairs, especially you two.  Threesomes are complicated enough, but especially tough when people are especially nervous. It’s going to be like that, sometimes you and me, and sometimes him and me and sometimes you and him.  We might as well build it from the ground up.”

He nodded slowly, and wondered briefly if he should argue with her, if he was about to get what he wanted.  “But won’t you feel left out?”  
“Yes, a little, but if this is going to work, I really think this is the best way.  I want you two to be together and I know that it will be easier if you two figure it out yourselves.  I rather love imagining it, actually. You're going to have to tell me all about it.”

“You’re a right adult, you know that?”  He reached out and stroked her hair, smoothing a tendril back behind her ears.” 

She rolled her eyes, pleased and slightly annoyed, so Hermione.  “Yes dear, it’s nice you noticed.  But rather disturbing you waited until just now, given what we did last night.” 

He kissed her cheek.  “Yes, and about that, great job.”  She inclined her head regally.  “Right, well we will keep you updated.”  He cleared his place and went to get his kit.

Fucking hell.  They were talking about three way relationships over breakfast, polite as you like, because they were going to have one.  It had been a while since Ron was struck with the oddness of his every day life, because it hadn’t been very odd as of late.  He almost laughed at the familiar feeling. 

The shower.  Fuck.  It was a holdover from the days when Harry lived across town, but they usually raced from the apparition spot, throwing elbows the entire way, attempting to get the first shower.  Should they race today?  Should he offer Harry the first shower?  Should he follow Harry in? Should they calmly approach the back step while holding hands and picking flowers? 

Harry beat him to the pitch.  He was leaning against the fence chatting with a few other of the regulars.  Ron allowed himself a second, just one, to think about the feel of Harry’s hands under his, the feel of  Harry’s head, relaxed against his chest and to notice Harry’s calves and the shape of his shoulder blades in his casual Saturday attire.  No one wore robes to pickup games, and Harry, like him, wore jeans, trainers and a threadbare T shirt.  Ron’s mouth was dry.  Harry caught his eye, turned up a corner of his mouth in that self deprecating way he had perfected to an art.   Ron smiled back and forced himself to scan the group assembled and decide how best to divide them to make the most interesting game. 

 They ended up on opposite sides and not as evenly matched as he had hoped.  Some of the newcomers brought some really impressive talent.  Ron’s team spent most of the time with the quaffle in the other end, and so he was left to hover by himself in relatively uninterrupted peace.  And Merlin be damned, but he couldn’t help thinking about the shower.  He didn’t have to work hard to conjure real memories of Harry, water running down his chest, steam rising off his skin, absentmindedly washing the same part of his back over and over.  He was going to have sex with Harry.  He hadn’t seriously considered it for a very long time, but now it was impossible not to think about.  He found himself stuck on the stupidest details.  When he took off Harry’s shirt, should he reach behind his neck and pull, the way he did when he removed his own shirt, or should he pull from the bottom up the way he did with Hermione?  Should he have shaved this morning?  Would his stubble bother Harry?

A glint of movement caught his eye, and he recognized the snitch instinctively.  He scanned the action to see if anyone else had spotted it.  Harry was behind him, and off to the left somewhere, he thought.  His own team’s seeker was no where to be found.  Harry’s team was losing badly, but not enough that catching the snitch wouldn’t squeak out a win.  For one insane moment he directed all his mental energy at Harry, willing him to hear and swoop down upon it.  He then directed all of his energy at locating his own team’s seeker to summon her over.  He was staring into the bloody sun and his eyes hurt.  Harry swooped down, leveling out inches away from Ron.  No one was watching.  Ron’s team had just scored again.  Harry’s hand shot out and touched Ron’s forearm before he sped off in pursuit.  Wanker.  If the roles had been reversed, Ron would have grabbed a handful of his ass.  If they were going to risk being discovered being touchy feely in public, they should really go for something more interesting than a tap on the arm. 

Harry, being Harry, held the snitch up triumphantly, his chest heaving, and his eyes shining as he removed his glasses to wipe the sweat away.  Ron wiggled his eyebrows at Harry.  Harry wiggled his back, laughing. The group assembled on the pitch to decide that one match was enough for the morning, and agree to see each other the following week as usual.

They ambled together to the apparition point, like they always did.  Ron popped into the back garden a fraction of a second before Harry, and had enough time for half a breath to steady his nerves.  This was happening.  He dropped his broom and grabbed a handful of the front of Harry’s shirt.  Harry’s hands were in his hair.  He hadn’t shaved either and his stubble raked across Ron’s cheek.  Different, but definitely not bad.  Harry moaned like a whisper.  He smelled like sweat, of course, but like Harry, and Ron felt relieved and giddy and ripped open as he kissed him fiercely.  It was hard to kiss someone like you meant it when you couldn’t stop smiling.   
There were no trees, no fence, nothing close to lean against, so they pushed into each other, all angles and insistence.   Harry pulled away and looked up at him,  his expression not unlike the one he wore when he was about to draw his wand and rush into a fight.  “You know it feels like a kick in the bollocks when you side along like this.  I’ll see you upstairs.”  His whisper was so rough and low, Ron hadn’t fully understood his words until he was gone. 

Ron didn’t have to worry about removing Harry’s shirt; it was gone when he got there.  The shower was running and he quickly shucked off his own shirt to match.   It didn’t matter that Harry was six inches shorter and considerably lighter, when he crashed into Ron, he was completely under the other man’s control. He had always known that Harry was physically powerful.  He had experienced it personally more times than he could count.  It wasn’t that Harry had been holding back before, it was just that he was using his body in a completely different way.  Ron’s jeans, his trainers, his boxers all gone in that order.  It would have been funny, tripping out of his shoes and kicking them halfway across the bathroom, but it wasn’t.  Harry’s hands were everywhere, but notably completely above Ron’s waist.  Ron wrestled a hand between them and found Harry’s jeans to be slightly tougher to unfasten than he was used to.   He managed it, and hooked his fingers into both of Harry’s waistbands and tugged.  Harry’s shoes were already off. They were somewhere, probably.

And there they were.  Skin on skin in the rapidly steaming bathroom.  All of the skin.  He had never been more aware of his cock.  And he was always aware of his cock. Harry was on his tiptoes, and Ron was slouched slightly so that Harry was pressed up and underneath him.  Hermione sometimes marveled at the paradox of hard and soft of his erection.  He understood that viscerally now.  He felt Harry still and ease back slightly.  Carefully, he took a breath searched Harry’s face.  He had wondered if Harry might panic.  It wasn’t quite that, but there was definitely a question in his eyes.  He put a hand on Harry’s cheek.   
“It’s alright, mate.  Whatever you want to do is alright.” 

“It’s not that I don’t want to.  I really, really, want to.”  Harry twisted his hips for emphasis.  Ron would have laughed, but sparks were shooting through his body.  
“Alright then.  Hermione gave us her blessing this morning.  We can have a pint later and figure out what kind poofs were are.  Look, it’s just me, it’s just you.  And it’s going to feel bloody brilliant.”

And with that, Ron was unceremoniously shoved into the shower.  Harry’s knees hit the ground and his mouth were on him before Ron could formulate a plan.  The savior of the wizarding world gave enthusiastic, if inexperienced head.  Ron let it happen, combing his fingers through Harry’s hair, caressing his shoulders, humming appreciatively.  He was coming to the part where he had to work hard to last, and it hurt to call up coherent thoughts.  He noticed that Harry had set the temperature of the water slightly cooler than he typically preferred. He noticed that they needed more shampoo.  All the noticing in the world was not going to help him.   
He tugged a little at Harry’s arms, “Come up and give us a kiss.”  Harry obliged hungrily.  Ron wrapped his hand around his best mate and did his best to rotate his wrist the way he preferred it done on himself.  It felt backwards, but Harry didn’t seem to mind.  Harry’s thumb was running up and down on the underside of Ron’s shaft, gently, but insistently, while his other fingers curled over the top and ran opposite.  Funny, he had never thought to touch himself that way.  Harry’ breath was ragged and uneven.  He broke the kiss and looked up at Ron meaningfully.  Ron flexed his fingers and widened his grip to include Harry and himself.  Harry wrapped his arms around Ron’s neck and rested his forehead against Ron’s.  Harry came silently, with his eyes closed.   The sight of him, coming undone in Ron’s hands, his mouth half open, his wet body shaking against Ron’s was so much that Ron wasn’t sure coming would be explosion enough. Harry’s eyes popped open when he felt Ron stiffen and spill seconds later, creating an indistinguishable mess between them.

Harry found his brain first, his grin indelible, he kissed Ron chastely on the lips and soaped up his washcloth, cleaning everything thoroughly, and then moving on to Ron’s back. 

When Hermione returned home, she found them tangled up on the sofa, damp and nearly asleep, the wireless playing in the background.


	4. 4

The market wasn’t busy yet.  Hermione had an early enough start that she was able to wander through it without much thought to those around her.  She followed her usual pattern through.  At first, she forced herself to focus on the task at hand and deliberately kept from wondering what Harry and Ron might be up to.  The shopping was so mundane and the pull was too great.  Why shouldn’t she imagine it?  On more occasions than she could number, her mind had slipped to a hazy nonspecific place, no background, just bodies.  She had pictured them as a jumble of limbs and a struggle for control.  She pictured Harry’s face, lust mixed with awe, and the way softness would creep into Ron’s eyes, even when he was very, very serious.  She heard Ron’s voice outlining the list of things he and Harry might do, pausing to contemplate what may be feasible in the shower.    

She filled her basket with fresh vegetables, the meal planning happening automatically.  Ron often worked on Sundays, and she and Harry enjoyed an early dinner.  They’d have curry this week.  Their tikka masala was better than local takeaway, having been perfected through hundreds of preparations.  It wasn’t that Ron didn’t like curry; he’d eat it without complaint whenever it was served, but he rarely reached for the leftovers.  It was such an unusual thing, to look forward to something the next day and find it waiting in the kitchen.  This was, she supposed, just one example of the small things she saved just for Harry.  Television programs, entire genres of music, conversations about the minutiae of the Ministry, she knew Harry and Ron had these things too.

Despite all the observation and longing that she had endured over the years, for all the elicit imagining, Harry haunted so many corners of her thoughts that she hadn’t full illuminated.  Perhaps those were too close to a reality that she had long thought unattainable. The freedom to wander any way she wanted inside her own mind was a thrill she refused to let go unappreciated.  She conjured Harry, the angles of him, not as sharp as they had been as a child, but notable in the clothes he should have binned at least a year before.  Whether they were alone or in a crowd, he could just stand there in his quiet, but unapologetic way and look at her and smile a little bit and she would feel so seen.  Harry who protected her to a fault.  Harry who asked her advice, who listened when she spoke and remembered what she’d said.  Harry who never stopped saying thank you when she brought his groceries around each week.  Harry with a precious smile and casually quick hands.  Sometimes just his presence tugged her mind into very naughty places.  She wondered if it was just her, but she suspected he had that effect on everyone, based on the number of offers he’d declined over the years, even from people who knew nothing of his status in the wizzarding world.  She expected if had had been paying attention, he would have had turned down exponentially more.  

But when she considered Harry and sex concretely, she had pictured him and Ron together twice as often and she had envisioned any other permutation, herself included.  Based on recent events, she decided a few factors were likely at play.  It was one of her favorite fantasies, that was undeniably true.  She felt vindicated; it hadn’t existed only in her heavily occluded thoughts.  The tension between the men was real.  She smiled.  That they might be relieving it at that very moment made her shiver.  It wasn’t that she wanted Harry for herself any less than she wanted him for Ron, any less than she wanted the three of them to be together.  Hermione, like any mother, and like herself even before motherhood, had spent years wanting things for other people before she ever stopped to think about what she wanted for herself.  She paused in front of the dry goods to appreciate that fully.  Her stomach swooped.  She was going to get what she wanted.  

But what would the price be?  You never did get exactly what you wanted without giving something up.  When she listed the negative consequences, a few seemed most likely.  Hermione was a firm believer that the chances of disaster could be reduced by sufficiently worrying.  Harry might run away.  He might decide that something that felt this good couldn’t be meant for him, or that moving on to an unconventional relationship or any relationship would dishonor Ginny’s memory, or that the risk of discovery was too great to impose on his lovers.  She swallowed.  That ever present public interest had never really waned, but it mattered less than it used to.  There was a real chance that their relationship might be inadvertently be revealed and the public backlash would be severe.  But who better to face it than they, with so much experience? 

It was too much to hope for, that her life would continue exactly as had, that they would relate to each other just as before, except with less longing and more release.  She acknowledged the idea that it might not always be so wonderful.  She conjured all kinds of iterations of this, uneven attention, jealousy, arguments decided two against one, general awkwardness where there had once been routine.  But none of this seemed like a big enough deterrent.  These things happened now, with their clothes on.  If it intensified some, that was a small price to pay.  Maybe that was naive.  There was also the possibility that everything might implode, in a life altering, friendship ruining way.  Having embarked on one such relationship successfully, she liked her odds and she trusted her gut. She would have to name these things for Harry, and talk through their counterarguments, preferably soon, so that he heard her voice in his head when he started to spiral.

Hermione paid for the week’s groceries, sorting them into Harry’s home and hers.  She  put a stasis charm on everything, not trusting the standard one applied in store, color coded the bags for easy unloading, shrunk them into her shoulder bag then headed to the apothecary.

When she had obtained every item on her list, she apparated to the back garden, noting Ron’s discarded Firebolt and Harry’s entire kit. She came cautiously in through the back.  Setting her bag on the kitchen table, Hermione peered quietly around the corner.  Ron was sprawled lengthwise on the sofa, one foot dangling off the edge.   Harry was tucked between the back of the couch and Ron, on his side, his head against Ron’s chest.  Harry opened one eye and looked at her, his smile apologizing, asking and celebrating all at once.  He sat up a few seconds later, extracting himself from Ron’s embrace surprisingly delicately and headed into the kitchen to help her sort and unload.  She knew Ron was awake because his foot was wiggling and he wasn’t snoring.  He would rouse himself in a few minute and join them.  When rising from a comfortable position, Ron took an extra beat to get going, but he always managed.

It was one thing to cavalearly dismiss the risks, when acknowledging them in solitude.  Here was Harry in front of her.  He busied himself with the familiar system: blue parcels to his house, white ones to stay.  Hermione sorted through the packages from the apothecary.  Her eyes drifted to his backside as he rearranged the cupboards so that the new items would fit.  The rush of hormones made her feel like a teenager.  He had to know how he looked in those jeans.  It wasn’t playing fair.  She swallowed and scanned herself.  Everything was okay.  Harry was here, in her kitchen where he belonged.  His shoulders were relaxed and he was humming to himself as he executed the usual routine.  “Curry tomorrow.” He turned and grinned at her, elbow deep in her shoulder bag.  

“Sounds perfect.”  His smile was disproportionate.  He was looking at her, maybe to the left of her.  If she had any doubt about what he and Ron had been up to, she didn’t anymore.  His subtle refusal to make eye contact was the first familiar move in a sequence Harry initiated when he really wanted to tell a secret, but didn’t think he should.  He always told them, and usually sooner rather than later.

“You look happy, Harry.  Did you have a good time?”  She couldn’t help it.  She liked prodding at Harry when he was a little bit embarrassed; his blush made his already boyish face appear so much younger.  Besides that, she was dying for details.  

“Yeah.  It was...I don’t know.  It was really excellent.”  There was the blush.  She took half a step toward him. 

“Yeah?” His hand flashed through the space between them and spun her around by her hip.  They were facing the dining room.  She was flush against him, and he lowered his head to whisper in her ear.

Ron appeared in the doorway, backlit and slightly mussed.  His smirk was lazy.  “Hi.”

“Harry was just about to fill me in on your morning.”  Ron smiled down at her, pulling her and Harry to him.  

“Right well, Harry caught the snitch, and then we went upstairs and had a shower.”  She frowned and Ron laughed and brushed away the piece of Hermione’s hair that was falling across Harry’s cheek.  

“Yes dear, anything special about that shower?”  Hermione prepared to engage her Ron Weasley Information Extraction Protocol.  It was pretty much the same procedure whether Ron was being obtuse deliberately and when he wasn’t. Ron was looking rather pleased with himself.  

Harry shifted behind her and kissed her neck softly.  Harry’s mouth was on her skin for the first time. One whole side of her body crawled with gooseflesh.  She sighed and leaned back into him.  What had she been about to say?

“Yes, best shower of my life come to think of it.”  Ron laughed as Harry moved to kiss her on the other side.  “Not all of the things happened, but some of the things.”  

“Weasley, if you think I’m going to be satisfied with the description, ‘some of the things…”  Ron cut her off with a kiss.  Harry’s hands kept her tightly against him, anchored at her hip, his interest asserting itself.

Harry nibbled on her earlobe and whispered, “I was so nervous, Hermione.  And then he grabbed me and kissed me and I don’t really remember what I was thinking after that.  We had a shower and I put my mouth on him, and we used our hands and it was incredible.”

She pulled her mouth away from Ron’s to gasp, “Mmmm, that sounds wonderful.  The level of detail leaves something to be desired but I can…” And she realized she had left Ron’s mouth unoccupied, which she knew was a rookie mistake.  He leaned over her, grabbed Harry by the chin and kissed him, not aggressively, not gently.  Oh Jesus, Merlin, whoever the fuck.  This was the kiss she had imagined since she had imagined anything at all and she was watching it from the inside.  It looked as practiced as if it had always been this way, Harry moaning, Ron rocking into her while he tugged Harry closer.  There was a hand on her breast and someone was sliding her skirt up her thigh. She couldn’t keep still, rolling her hips back into Harry and forward into Ron.  It was Harry’s hand, now holding a bunch of her skirt, his fingers skimming underneath the hem.  Years of silent communication were evident.  They moved quite easily, if slowly, Ron stepping backward, then Hermione, then Harry, toward their shared goal of the sofa, trading kisses, increasing the friction.  

They were nearly there when a pop at the fireplace froze them each beanpole straight and separated them by half an arm’s length each.  The gazed at the floor and snuck glances at each other, trying to gauge how disheveled and obvious they might appear.  “Potter?” called the businesslike voice from inside the floo.  Harry dove to his knees in front of the hearth and blocked the view, not bothering to smooth his hair.  

“Yes?”

“There you are.  They picked up Crowder and want you there for questioning.”  The bland face gazed back at him expectantly.  

“Right, be down in twenty.”  Harry’s calm auror voice replied as he ended the call and smoothed his shirt.

Hermione still hadn’t caught her breath.  Harry smiled at them ruefully.  “I’m sorry.  You know how important this bastard is.  I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?”  He planted a kiss on each of them.  “I love you.”  He looked into Ron’s eyes.  “I love you.”  He smiled at Hermione.  

“I love you too, you git.”  

“I love you, Harry.”  And, forgetting his shoes, he was gone.

Ron sank into the sofa and she settled beside him.

“It was alright, Ron?  This is alright?”  He smiled wickedly at her, pulling her to him.  

“I regret nothing.”


	5. 5

When Harry arrived, it was clear that the team was in for a wait.  Crowder had presented as intoxicated when he was picked up.  He was weaving and slurring his words, his pupils like saucers.  His incapacitation had contributed greatly to his capture, having not noticed the Aurors apparapting into the bar the anonymous tipster had specified until it was too late.  Though his vitals were severely irregular, the intoxicant did not appear on any of the preliminary toxicity scans.  The team was waiting on the Department of Forensic Mediwizardry to identify and neutralize the substance.  If the team from the DFM took much longer, Crowder would sober up and render their services unnecessary.  

DMF approval and stable vitals were required for the Precision Interrogation and Extraction that Harry had perfected, a high point in his career.  Harry’s techniques ensured that memories pertinent to the criminal investigation rose to the surface and could be collected cleanly while leaving unrelated memories undisturbed and unexamined by interrogators.  The Ministry press release had called it an Accio for interrogation Legilimency. That was the gist of it, but the details of it were much more complicated and much less interesting. The side effect of being its founding father was days like this, called in unexpectedly to assist a team that brought in a moderate profile suspect.  

Harry rested his head against the wall and steepled his fingers over his chest. He had eaten a sandwich, played a few rounds of cards with the other members of the team hanging around and had caught up on his appreciable paperwork backlog.  There wasn’t much more he could do to fill the time.  He thought it best not to let his idle mind drift back to the morning behind him or the evening to come.  One couldn’t question a wanted dark artifact trafficker with a throbbing erection.  These hurry up and wait inevitabilites of his profession always ended at the least opportune time.

One would think an accomplished Occlumens would do a better job when deciding not to think of something.  It floated up in flashes.  The tang of Ron, as Harry closed his mouth around him, water rolling from his bent head into Harry’s eyes.  Hermione’s surprised squeak as his fingers curled over her hip at last, her soft curls fluttering against Harry’s face as she settled against him.  The pull of Ron walking backwards as a shared pulse thumped wildly between them.

He really fucking hated Crowder.  

He imagined Hermione in the new bed he had shared with no one, spread beneath him and unhurried.  He had seen Hermione’s underwear in a number of contexts.  Fresh from the laundry, bawled up in the hamper and peeking out from above her waistband.  He now imagined running his hands over the fabric and slipping his hand inside.  Harry was just about to rid her of them altogether when the DFM team burst out of the interrogation chamber, signed off on Crowder’s health and the interrogation team was summoned to begin questioning.  

The systematic rhythm of identifying and isolating relevant memories for cataloging became tedious quickly, as Crowder was well entrenched in dark circles.   Crowder was not particularly smart nor accomplished at Occluding, but he was stubborn and mean and disinclined to be at all forthcoming.  The early morning sky was brightening at the edges when Harry finally popped through to the back garden.  He automatically checked the bigger house first.  There was a light on in the Weasley’s kitchen.  

Hermione was awake, slightly early but not out of character. The surprise was Ron, seated next to her, yawning into his coffee and freshly showered.  Hermione rose immediately to get Harry tea, while Ron set about some toast.  Harry ate with his head in his hands.  Despite the innumerable things to say, Hermione made a visible effort not to ask him questions.  She had learned long ago that Harry did not enjoy a chat after an allnighter.  She laid her cool hand across the back of his neck and rubbed slow circles while she tisked at the Prophet.  Ron’s heavy hand squeezed his thigh and then rested there.  He was dressed for the shop: casually but with his good jeans and his shirt tucked in.

Harry finished his meal quickly, but found he was quite unwilling to move.  Ron hummed along badly with the wireless as he set the dishes to clean with a vague wandless gesture in the direction of the sink..  

“Anything on your list before you go and rest, Harry?”  Hermione asked without flicking her eyes up from the paper. The world could be bloody ending, and Hermione would still sit in the sunny patch at the breakfast table and lament the inadequacies and inaccuracies of the Prophet on the last morning.

He shook his head wearily.  “No, thanks for breakfast.  I’m going to catch some sleep and see you for dinner around 4.  Have a good day at work, Ron.”  He stood to leave.  His exhaustion made the lust in his blood uncomfortable.  He was so tired that he wondered if he would be able to sleep without a potion and decided not to chance it.  One step ahead of him, Hermione slid a small purple phial into his pocket from behind, again not bothering to lift her eyes from the page.

“Just one thing.”  Ron leaned across the doorway Harry was approaching, grinning at Hermione, who had finally looked up.  He reached for Harry’s hand and pulled it to his mouth.  “It’s back and forth and little circles, like this.”  He flicked his tongue across the pad of Harry’s index finger to demonstrate.  “You’ve got to press harder than you think, or she says it tickles.  Or you know, do you own thing.”  Harry’s eyebrows shot into his hairline as he processed both what was happening and what Ron meant.  When Ron returned his finger, Harry replaced it with his mouth, kissing him thoroughly.  

“Duly noted.” Ron’s pupils were dilated, his grin stuck at one corner of his mouth.  “See you tonight, Hermione.” She was smiling like she wasn’t sure she was supposed to be smiling. He waived his saliva coated finger and brushed past Ron and out the door.

Hermione appeared in his kitchen promptly at 4, her hair freshly plaited and her sundress an old favorite.  She looked exactly as she had always done on Sunday afternoon and Harry was struck with the wrongness of that.  A freed bird beat its wings in Harry’s chest.  There should be something to mark the difference.

He meant to spin her around and kiss her, but instead they set about the rhythm of preparing the meal, chopping and simmering in tandem.  Beautiful, efficient, business-first Hermione.  He shouldn’t have been surprised.  Her braid swung with her hips as she moved. They chatted while they worked, Harry feeling much more up to filling her in on the details of his previous evening.  When she dished the final product, she smiled up at him from beneath her eyelashes like a promise.  

There it was.  It was a look he had tried so many times not to see, as it fell from her towards Ron.  Alone, in the small kitchen, it stopped his heart.  He was suddenly very much not hungry. 

He tried, stupidly maybe, to explain it to her, catching her hand as she passed to sit across from him.  “Hermione, I…”  

And he found that she knew.  Hitching her modest skirt in one fluid motion she was astride him.  For a man pushing forty, he’d spent an inordinate amount of time grinding like a teenager as of late.  But with Hermione rocking in his lap, he could hardly be arsed to care about his image.  She tasted like mint and sweetness.  She kissed him like she’d been saving up.  He pushed her straps down her shoulders and tasted her collarbone.  He tried to remember to breathe.  Her hands, small and still cool, threaded through his hair and pulled him back to her.  He found the eyelets of her dress and unfastened them with one hand, shaking his head to banish the memory of another dress and its owner’s patience while he mastered the skill he had just demonstrated.  Hermione saw.

“Harry,” He had never heard her voice that low and melodic.  “Harry, are you thinking of something from the past?”  

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it.  It’s all wrapped up together, isn’t it?”  She murmured wordlessly and kissed behind his ear, along his jaw, at the corner of his mouth.  Hermione always made him feel so cared for.  He hadn’t realized she had been holding back.  

“Of course it is.  All this is bound to make you remember and remembering is bound to make you feel sad, and when you feel sad, guilty is a close neighbor, circumstances being what they are.  You loved her well, Harry.  No one ever doubted it.  You did right by her and you’re still doing right.  She would want this feeling for you.  But the thoughts that stop you aren’t going to go away overnight.  Take your time, Harry; we have it now.”

He marveled at  the lightness a few small sentences from Hermione had created.  Hermione who was right, and had grown out of gloating about it.  She was blurry up close, soft corners and familiar lines.  He rested his head in the crook of her neck and reached inside himself.  It was okay.  It was okay for him to have this. 

“I don’t want to waste another minute.”  He stood, and Hermione wrapped her legs around him in surprise.  She tightened her arms around his neck.  His bedroom was just off the kitchen hallway, though the short steps took too long.

Hermione fall back on the bed with a soft groan and he sank to his knees in before her.  He slid his hands up her thighs slowly, and then back, inching down her underwear, black with a hint of lace.  Her plait was still astonishingly neat, it's end nestled between her breasts, which swelled when breath hitched.  She was half out of dress, skirt bunched around her middle, propped on one elbow.  Back and forth and small circles, Ron had said.  He dipped his head and gave it a try.  Hermione hissed and bucked, dropping her elbow and laying flat.  Sweetness again.  He looked up and met Hermione’s hooded eyes, catching a smile he had never seen before.  When she came, her mouth was a perfect o as she held her breath behind it.  She nudged him away gently when he attempted to resume.

The languid kiss that followed brought them parallel, Hermione’s warm brown eyes were soft in the fading light as she removed his shirt, and then the rest.  She had to sit up and then lay back down in order to maneuver out of the sundress.  He couldn’t help it, he smiled when she tossed it aside and it landed in a heap on the floor.  That she seemed content for it to stay there, so untidy, made him feel powerful.

It was not as he had imagined it, Hermione smiling up at him, his eyes pouring over the dip in her stomach and the curve of her hips.  How could you imagine such a thing and do it justice?  Her body was marked with battle scars, both literal and those wrought by motherhood.  She was taking in the sight of him, and he wondered what she thought as she sighed breathily and stroked the side of his face.

When he entered her, her eyes slipped closed, but only for a moment.  Her hips ground out a slow, steady rhythm that held him close and prevented retreat.  There was no pulling back, only racheting tighter, pulling Harry’s buzzing awareness thin.  He slid a hand between them, imagining Ron’s tongue dancing over his finger.  She bit her lip and the rhythm was lost to something wilder.  Her mouth curved into another small o and he was gone, pouring himself into her with a moan.

The curry was only slightly cold when they returned to it, and tasted, Harry thought, exponentially better when eater in his underwear.


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This will be the end, for now. I think if it were to go on much longer, I would have to give them more problems than I have a heart to at the moment. Thank you to all the wonderful people who read, left Kudos or comments. It was lovely to dip my toe back in to writing for fun. I'm thrilled anyone wanted to read it. If anyone knows of another place this might be appreciated, I'd love some suggestions. I'd also love to have it betaed before I put it anywhere else, since the mistakes are driving me nuts and I'm sure I see only half of them. If anyone is interested in this or in future projects, that would be so very appreciated! Thanks again, and love to you all!  
> ~My

Ron felt vaguely irritated. He had spent the majority of the afternoon titrating the spellwork on a new enhanced daydream product and would probably leave before he’d gotten it completely right. George, perceptive fucker, had noticed Ron’s distractibility and had taken him to task about his shifty eyes. Ron wasn’t sure what he was supposed to tell people, but he knew he wasn’t ready to say anything at all at the moment. He wondered if they needed to disclose anything, but he could imagine at least seven ways that a misstep could blow up in their faces if they remained silent. Not worth the risk. That being acknowledged, the line in his life between before and after had been drawn less than 48 hours ago. He should probably take a cock up the ass at least once before he called Harry his boyfriend out loud. Or maybe the other way around. Hmm… or better yet, both. Now there was an interesting question. He and Hermione had had their share of anal sex. He had a enjoyed a finger or three in his rear more than once. He honestly didn’t know which he might prefer and he wondered what Harry’s preference might be. He didn’t need a daydream charm to imagine pushing into Harry or being pinned to the bed by him. The abstract idea of both seemed equally appealing. Harry could have whatever he wanted, but Ron knew he wanted to look him in the eye while it happened, either way.

George backed off after being told to get bent the third time. To his credit, George had developed a facsimile of an adult’s sense of when to rib someone and when not to press the issue. Ron imagined the mountain of gleeful shit George would sling when he found out. Only so much restraint could be expected of a mere mortal. Even Ron had to admit this would be a goldmine. But he knew that the jabs wouldn’t have any teeth. George had very little room to sit in judgement of Ron’s sex life, he happened to know. But if telling George someday was going to cause such a lump in his throat, he couldn’t fathom the feeling of coming out to his parents or the rest of his family. Coming out as a forty year old happily married man. The idea was ridiculous, but the situation certainly called for it. He imagined his parents, arched eyebrows and bitten tongues, polite dinner with his hands set awkwardly in his lap. No, he was not ready for that, not even with Harry and Hermione there with him, their hands also kept studiously to their person. That thought had him reaching for the bin of sweets he should not have been eating while experimenting and popping them into his mouth whole to avoid crumbs. 

He should have given up when the whole containment mechanism for the charm erupted in smoke, hazy orange this time. There was something about the release mechanism that just wouldn’t cooperate. He had learned long ago that the best solution to his impasse would be found after a break. Just a few more minutes and he would call it a night, ten tops. 

It was later than he had expected, and he emerged from his windowless office to find it quite dark. There was a sliver of moon rising in the back garden and the evening was still chilly enough that he wished for a jacket. Harry’s house was dark, and the only light in his own home came from the bedroom window. Interesting. He apparated into the upstairs hall, deciding that he should probably insert himself into whatever might be happening up there in a less conspicuous way than appearing in the middle of it. 

The bedroom door was open. The bed was recently magically enlarged, he noticed. They were barely touching, leaning gently toward each other, reading. Harry’s glasses were sliding down his nose and he was wearing an old T shirt of Ron’s that he’d rescued from the rag pile, maybe last year. Harry had argued it was perfectly good, with only two holes that wouldn’t stay mended. His trashy muggle crime thriller was dog eared. He never could be bothered to find a bookmark. Hermione looked as she always did in the evening, also clad in one of Ron’s soft old shirts. She chewed her lip when she read. Ron expected to see her typical charms or potions journal, but found she was reading a novel with a beach on the cover. That was a good sign. 

They had to have heard him come in. He wasn’t particularly quiet on his feet, a trait he hadn’t yet been able to remedy to Hermione’s satisfaction. Harry looked up first, smiling cheekily and creasing down yet another page. Hermione finished hers and set her book aside just in time for Ron to make an impulsive dive into the bed between them. He bounced pleasantly and steadied himself by throwing an arm in each direction.

“Hi. You two smell like curry.” He sniffed the side of Hermione’s neck.

“Oh. Sorry dear.” Hermione primly smoothed her hair down.

“I didn’t say it was bad. It’s exotic.” He nudged Harry. “Have a nice dinner?”

“Yes. Delicious.” Harry looked too relaxed to leer completely, but he tried, sweeping his glace over Hermione’s form and lingering at the new red smudge at her collar bone. 

“She fucks like a demon, doesn’t she?” Ron grinned conspiratorially and folded himself around Harry, stroking the back of his neck. He heard Hermione roll her eyes, which made him laugh into Harry’s hair.

“Something like that, yes. She’s incredible.” Harry reached around and found Hermione’s hand, the movement bringing him face to face with Ron. 

“You can’t blame me for saying so, love, you’re a terrific in bed." Ron reached back and added his hand over Harry’s, resting on Hermione’s hip. "Okay, fine, she sometimes fucks like a demon. Come to think of it, there are about a million different kinds of sex to have with Hermione. It’s a very, very good time to be you, Harry.” His stage whisper made Harry shiver visibly. Ron tugged him closer, feeling his warmth and his hipbones. He sighed happily at the rightness of it.

“There’s pissed off about work Hermione, there’s slow sleepy Hermione, there’s grateful I picked up my socks Hermione, I don’t have a favorite, really, as long as she’s naked.” He rolled back over and found she had cracked a smile. He rested his head against her chest and tangled his legs with Harry’s. “Now there’s a question I think only you can answer, my dear. If there’s a million ways for two people to have sex, how many ways are there for three?”

Hermione, bless her, tipped her eyes to the ceiling and appeared to consider his question seriously, at least in part. “Hmmm…I’m not sure how many you actually mean when you say a million. Realistically, we’ve only had sex a few thousand times. And I expect there’d be more ways for the three of us, than there would be for just two, but I’m not sure what research might inform this. It’s not quite addition or multiplication, and it’s not quite exponential.”

“She’s not going to rest until she’s answered my question literally. I love this woman. She’s going to fall asleep tonight counting sex positions.”

“Beats the hell out of sheep.” Harry laughed and kissed him, slow, but not slow enough to stop Ron’s blood from racing. Hermione propped herself up to watch. Ron turned and kissed her, while Harry’s hands slid up the back of his T shirt. He was so distracted by the feeling of Harry’s hands running perfectly over the sore spots in his shoulders that he almost failed to register when his wife stopped kissing him and started kissing his best friend. He had never seen Hermione kiss anyone else before. He rested his head against the crisp pillow and admired it. Her eyes fluttered open every few minutes and the corners of her very clever mouth turned up a fraction when she did. She made a soft humming noise as Harry pulled her closer, squeezing Ron deliciously between. Harry’s hand still skipped sporadically over Ron’s shoulder blades; Hermione’s fingers were laced through his. The warmth and the pressure of the unhurried pace made Ron’s eyelids droop.

He wasn’t sure how long it had been, or who had been kissing whom, but Harry was asleep too soon. Harry, unlike Hermione, could sleep like the dead. He dropped a kiss on Harry’s temple, and one on Hermione’s stomach as he shimmied ungracefully to the end of the bed in search of a sandwich and a shower before bed. The uniform for the evening, apparently, was one of his old T shirts. He ought not to be the only one without. 

Hermione was almost asleep when he returned. She had moved closer to the edge of the bed, as she did when it was time to stop cuddling and start sleeping. Hermione preferred her own blankets and some space. Harry, he was reminded, had an uncanny ability to seek out heat while unconscious. Ron’s head had barely hit the bed before Harry curled into him without so much as a change in breathing. Ron breathed in Harry’s smell, his sharp soap tempered by sleep and sex. He kicked his blanket over Harry’s feet and smoothed them over his arms. He wondered where Harry’s glasses had gone, and then saw them resting neatly on Hermione’s nightstand. Ron felt a swell of something too big to name. He closed his eyes to enjoy the moment, and opened them again when Hermione’s soft wand alarm buzzed beneath her pillow.

Ron wasn’t going in to work until mid morning, so he laid with one eye half open and watched Hermione gather her things and disappear into the bathroom. Harry was sitting at the foot of the bed. Ron rummaged around Hermione’s table without turning his head and poked Harry in the back with his glasses. Harry squeeze his toe wordlessly and popped out of the bedroom to begin his own routine. They would have to do something about that. Harry shouldn’t have to leave. Ron considered this for as long as it took to roll over and close his eyes again.

Just as Ron had predicted, they daydream charm release mechanism took only an hour the next morning. He had spent some time in the front of the shop, running the register and assisting customers, which he almost always enjoyed. Mondays were slow days, so he left the shop in an assistant’s hands to head home early enough to make dinner. He was in the mood for something simple, and found everything he needed for chicken and vegetables. There was enough wine leftover from Friday night to make an easy sauce. 

Hermione and Harry arrived home within minutes of each other, looking as if the day had not been as kind to them as it had been to him. Though he always looked striking in ministry robes, Harry’s eyes were tired. Hermione had a quill sticking out of her hair and ink on her fingers. They sank down at the table gratefully. Ron opened another bottle of wine while Hermione recounted the day of researching ridiculously antiquated legislation preventing their negotiations with the centaurs from advancing. Harry had shrugged and mentioned that Crowder’s social network was bigger than they had thought. His boots, by the door, were muddy. Upon closer inspection, he may have had a bit of a bruise along his jaw. He was unlikely to say much more, as it sounded like the case was rather sensitive, but Ron was sure they would hear all about it when the case wrapped up. They cleared the kitchen together and were about to retire to the living room as usual when Harry startled him.

“No.” He was standing in the door and put his hands across the frame to block the way. Hermione stopped short and Ron bumped into the back of her. “It’s been a shit day, even with all the memories from the weekend. We’re going upstairs and we’re going to make it better.” He turned and headed up the stairs. The matter appeared to be settled. 

Ron tumbled back across the bed first, then Hermione. Harry’s hands deftly found their way through the tangle, working at the buttons on Hermione’s shirt as he hovered over them. She was tugging at Ron’s. He lifted his arms, distracted by the sight of Hermione’s skin slipping into view between Harry’s fingers. He had checked himself a few times for the jealousy logic told him would be inevitable. He rummaged around a little deeper. Nope. He ducked out of his shirt and kissed Hermione’s ribcage and Harry’s palm. They were beautiful. 

Harry nipped at Ron’s neck when Ron slid his robes off his shoulders, pulling him down by his belt. He felt it unfasten underneath his fingers, just as he felt his own pull and then fall open. Hermione smirked. She was kneeling in the center of the bed, all but naked in her lilac underwear. He moved to accommodate the disrobement charm and watched Harry, unfamiliar with the charm, struggle as his clothes leapt off him of their own accord and few across the room. It was one of Hermione’s best tricks and he liked that she didn’t always use it. He hated that she wouldn’t teach it to him.

Harry grinned at him impishly and shoved him roughly into a sitting position. His back thudded against the headboard and he found himself with a lapful of the naked Head Auror. Harry lowered his forehead to Ron’s and began to roll his hips. Ron’s fingers dug into Harry, wanting him closer than was possible. He looked up at Hermione, surprised to see her still in the center of the bed, just out of his reach, resting on her heals and watching. Her face was very flushed. One hand rolled her nipple and than other was about to dip in the waistband of her underwear. Her head lolled to one side, and she smiled at Ron with one side of her mouth.

“You two look like Christmas.” She hummed happily. Harry’s mouth skipped over Ron’s chest. Hermione’s hand disappeared below her waistband. She was making the soft little mewls that told Ron she was fucking herself like she meant it and not to pass the time. 

He hauled Harry around as gently as he could. He was pliant and spun easily to face Hermione. This was not to be missed. Ron lowered his lips to Harry’s ear, his teeth grazing the edge, nipping. 

“Do you see that, mate?” He pushed Harry’s glasses up the bridge of his nose, in case that helped. “See the way her ass flexes like that?” Harry murmured in the affirmative, grinding against Ron. “She’s going to make herself come any minute.” He slipped his hand around Harry, dealing long lazy strokes. “Look at her, so gorgeous. She’s dreamed about this for years and she’s finding out that it is exactly as good as she imagined it.”

“Better.” Hermione rasped, her hands quickening. 

Harry lunged forward and took Hermione’s free breast in his mouth, providing a lovely view form behind. She keened and laced her fingers through Harry’s hair, pushing his head lower. Harry obligingly yanked Hermione’s panties aside and tasted her. Finding himself unable to resist the invitation of Harry on all fours, Ron leaned forward.

There was a tiny little part in the back of Ron’s brain that watched uncertainly as Ron reached for the lube. Was he really going to put his body into another man’s ass? Not another man. Harry. Yes, that sounded like a great idea. He ran his hands over Harry to telegraph his intentions. Harry pressed back at him and he slicked one finger and gently pushed inside, adding a second finger soon after. Harry wiggled and jerked, moaning. Ron could smell Hermione, and hear Harry’s tongue sliding over her as she ground herself into his face.

“Oh my god, Ron.” Hermione’s eyes were screwed shut. “Do it. Do it please. Please fuck him.” 

“Yes. Please. I want you to.” Harry made wordless sounds as Ron withdrew his fingers and prepared to push inside. There was an all consuming squeeze that rolled Ron’s eyes back. He didn’t have to thrust shallowly for long. Soon Harry was slamming against him. 

Hermione was jerking wildly, her voice pitched high. Harry must be very good at multitasking. She came spectacularly, juices rolling down Harry’s face. The sight of them, and Harry’s frantic pace had Ron stuttering through his last seconds. Hermione leaned to kiss him and he was emptying himself into Harry in an orgasm that seemed to stretch for in impossibly long time. 

When it was over, he slumped against the headboard again. When Ron’s faculties drifted slowly back, he found his hands on the outside of his wife’s thighs, her head resting against his chest. Harry kissed him gently, tasting so like Hermione. He pulled Hermione’s legs wider, a clear invitation. 

“Harry.” It was work to find the words at first, and then he couldn’t stop them. “Harry, she feels amazing. Come fuck her beautiful, tight cunt. Let’s make her come again.” 

Harry needed no more encouragement, pushing Hermione into him in quick, shallow thrusts. She slid up and down his body with each advance, rubbing against his cock and getting her hair in his mouth. He needed his fingers into her thighs, holding her open.

He watched Hermione’s breasts sway and brush Harry’s chest. He was in awe of Harry, his brow furrowed and sweaty, lasting much longer than Ron thought he would have been able to if the roles were reversed. 

“You two are amazing. Does it feel as good as at looks?” Hermione nodded against him, her breath catching, and Harry responded by leaning down towards him. He was inches from Harry when he stilled. Ron met him the rest of the way and kissed him mercilessly through his orgasm, swallowing his cry and feeling his sweat mingle with his own.

They stayed tangled, just breathing, until they couldn’t stand it anymore. Eventually, they rose and showered together, cramming in precariously and taking turns washing spots that were hard to reach given the crowded real estate. Ron went in search of new old T shirts for bed. Harry summoned the wherewithal to pack lunches for the following day and Hermione refreshed the sheets. Ron extinguished the lights on the way upstairs, feeling full and light and thinking nothing in particular. The wind blew just enough to rattle the windows and a branch rattled against the bedroom window. Harry severed it wandlessly as he tucked himself under Ron’s arm. Hermione sighed contentedly as she pulled her blankets up to her chin, smiling into Harry’s eyes, which were blinking slowly. He had forgotten his glasses again. Hermione removed them, setting a kiss on the end of his nose and returned them to the night stand. Ron kissed her sweetly and stared at the ceiling until his eyes drifted closed, feeling Harry’s heart beat and watching Hermione’s chest rise and fall evenly. Life was rolling quite nicely indeed.


End file.
